


Room Service

by rusty76



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Breakfast, Daylight Savings Time is the devil, Fluff, M/M, gratuitous fluffy signifiers of intimacy, gratuitous use of the work fuck as a modifier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusty76/pseuds/rusty76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick hates Daylight Savings Time.  Pete loves breakfast.   Also Patrick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melusina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melusina/gifts), [girlpearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlpearl/gifts).



> Here's your plate back, hope you enjoy the cookies. Also, apparently in my headcanon Patrick has a filthy mouth?

* * *

 

 

Patrick stumbles out of the bathroom, skin pink from the heat of the shower and hair slicked back.  “I thought I heard room service, right? Coffee, for the love of god.”

 

Pete, because Pete is a pig but also an awesome friend, shoves another wad of pancake into his mouth but grandly presents a cup of coffee in Patrick’s direction.  It’s steaming hot, and Patrick buries his face in the cup, blissfully inhaling.  He swears he can feel the caffeine molecules soaking into his eyes, bring sweet sweet consciousness to the table.

 

On cue, his stomach rumbles, and he eyes the cart.  Pancakes, biscuits, scrambled eggs, toast, and some kind of terrifyingly artistic fruit salad in a cup.  One plate, currently hosting the smeary remans of Pete’s breakfast.  One fork, currently scooping up another butter and syrup dripping bite.

 

“Where’s mine?” 

 

“Sorry bro, no fork for you.  Guess you’ll have to do it caveman style.”  Pete grunts, rolling his eyes, and Patrick sighs.  He’s hungry, and he needs more coffee, and swear to god one of these days he’s going to murder Pete, but it’s not like any of them developed fine table manners on tour, so he reaches over for a biscuit and slathers honey on it.   Before he can get it to his mouth, there’s a forkful of pancake poking him in the nose. Patrick rears back, sloshing coffee across his thumb, scalding it.

 

“Fuck! Jesus fuck, can you please not, you fucker?”  Sticking his scalded thumb in his mouth, he reassures himself that it’s not blistered, and looks up.

 

Pete’s cheeks are flushed, dusky rose under a day’s worth of stubble, and the bite of pancake is still hanging here.  He smiles, the smile Patrick’s grown to know and usually regret, and waves the bite of pancake.  “Trick.  Triiiiick.  C’mon, just try a biiiiite.”

 

Trapped by the coffee in his one hand and the still pending biscuit in his other, he rolls his eyes, leaning forward, and opening his mouth.  The pancakes are delicious, fluffy and loaded with real syrup and butter, and he licks his lips.  

 

“Yeah, fine, thanks for nothing asshole.  I’m not playing baby bird with you, so hand it over.”

 

Pete’s eyes are dark, and he swoops his free hand forward, smearing across Patrick’s chin where he's dripped syrup.  “Ungrateful bastard.  Here I am, waiting on you hand and foot -“

 

“You’re not waiting on me, you’re withholding breakfast, so quit fucking around.  Gimme.”

 

“Spoilsport.  Here, go on then.” Pete drops the lone fork on the tray, standing up and ruffling Patrick’s still damp hair into a birds nest tangle.  Patrick swats at him, but misses, and Pete laughs.

 

Turning away, he raises his thumb to his mouth, tongue pink and quick as it clears the bit of syrup.  He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Patrick.

 

“Oh my god, just fuck off and bother Joe or something!”

 

Pete laughs, and scoots out the door.  Patrick sets down he coffee and abandons the biscuit, and tries not to think about the curve of Pete’s lip.   It’s no use though, and he curses, adjusting himself through the suddenly tighter towel.  He wants breakfast, and more coffee, and six more hours of sleep, but most of all, he wants the wicked lushness of Pete’s mouth on him.

 

He leans back in the chair, flipping open the towel.  He slips his hand down, cradling his balls, and gives himself a few quick warm up strokes.  It’s good, so good and he’s warm from the shower, and he’s into it, thinking of Pete laughing at him, Pete in his stupid fancy briefs, Pete’s nimble hands working through chords on the guitar and he’s close - _so close_ , dizzy red behind his eyes when the door opens and Pete flings himself back into the room.  

 

“Dude, you ok?  you sounded - “  Pete halts, mouth open and uncharacteristically speechless.  Patrick is mortified - it’s not like they haven’t all interrupted each other at one time or another, but it’s different when you’re pulling one off thinking of your bandmate.  He can feel the blush all the way down to his bellybutton, and suddenly realizes that he’s still sitting there holding his dick.  He jerks his hand back, tugging the towel over his lap in a  belated attempt at dignity, and scowls.

 

Pete licks his lips, and instead of leaving, like _common fucking courtesy_ demands, steps closer.  And closer.  

 

Patrick’s suddenly dizzy with more than desire and mortification, and opens his mouth to say…something, but Pete stops him, callused fingers against his lips, and nervously licking his own.  

 

“Just, just. I want, please?” and he’s dropping to his knees, and Patrick thinks that maybe the day will turn out pretty damn good after all.


End file.
